An Appointment With Death
by zephyrocity
Summary: After the Year that Never Was, the Doctor stops by Torchwood, planning to take Jack on a vacation. Thanks to some incorrect coordinates, they find themselves fighting off a living nightmare. Jack/Tenth Doctor, Jack/Ianto.
1. one

**_An Appointment With Death (1/3)_  
Author:** Crimson Kaoru  
**Pairing(s)/Main Character(s):** Overall: Jack/Tenth Doctor (main), other: Jack/Ianto, Owen, Gwen, Tosh; _this part: brief Jack/Ianto_  
**Rating:** Overall: PG-13; _this part: PG-13_  
**Word Count:** complete at ~15,500 words; _this part: ~5,000_  
**Spoilers: **_Adrift_, Torchwood-wise, and through series three of Doctor Who.  
**Disclaimer:** _Torchwood _and _Doctor Who_ are property of the BBC, RTD, etc.  
**Summary:** A few months after the Year that Never Was, the Doctor stops by Torchwood with a plan to take Jack on a spin in the TARDIS. He planned a vacation, but thanks to some incorrect coordinates, they find an empty ship, hanging freely in space. It all begins to go downhill when the dead won't stay dead and Jack starts to cough up blood.

**· one ·**

The sign on the door said 'Tourist Information Centre'. As he took a step back and gave the squat, dockside building in front of him a quick once-over, the Doctor decided that everything seemed to be just as Jack had described. He couldn't help but wonder if the so-called 'Hub' was a little more impressive on the inside—though he knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving.

The Doctor threw a fond glance over his shoulder at the TARDIS, parked innocently beside the nearby steps. She hummed a tune only he could hear, and he smiled and turned back to the building. As he ran over what he was going to say in his head one final time, he tapped a quiet, age-old rhythm on the wooden boards beneath his trainers; it wasn't quite loud enough to drown out the noise of the greenish-grey water lapping gently below.

He considered, briefly, that he might look a little strange to those passing by—he'd been standing outside this building for the past few minutes, hands in his pockets, gazing blankly at the door with his glasses lodged crookedly on his nose. The Doctor was actually quite content to stand there and stare all day; though he'd gone over his plan enough times to ensure that it was kink-free, he didn't want to go in there and be rejected on the spot.

A few minutes later, though, the smell of fish and salt in the air began to get to him. With a deep breath, the Doctor rocked on the balls of his feet, pushed his spectacles up his nose, opened the door—and was so busy taking in the sights before him that he very nearly tripped over a hat stand a few feet inside the threshold.

The young man behind the desk—tall, with dark hair, in a black suit—looked up with a start from a brochure that he'd been skimming.

"Hello!" the Doctor said brightly. He righted his footing, then reached over and plucked the hat stand out of the way of the door.

The young man stared at him for a moment, looking as if he was trying to place where he had seen the Doctor's face before. When the expression on said face turned expectant, he checked himself and offered a polite smile. "How can I help you?"

The Doctor stepped forwards and draped his upper body across the counter. "I'm looking for a Captain Jack Harkness."

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name," the young man said without missing a beat. He held up a phone book. "Would you like me to look in here?"

The Doctor picked up a pen lying on the desk and began to draw curlicues on a nearby brochure. "Oh, but you do. Maybe you could phone up and tell him that the Doctor's arrived? I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear from me."

The young man's whole body went stock-still at that. His expression closed off, and when he spoke, his voice was faint but lined with something darker. "The Doctor, you said?"

The Doctor nodded enthusiastically. "That's right." His eyes narrowed in concentration behind his glasses as he inspected the boy before him. "Now, which one are you? Jack told me about an Owen… what was it? Hawker? Oh, well. Owen Something, and—and an Ianto Jones. Jack talked about him a _lot_." Judging by how the young man jerked, just a tiny little bit, at that last sentence, the Doctor's guess had been right on target. His eyes crinkled in amusement and he grinned, wide and white. "Talked about _you_ a lot, I mean. Good afternoon, Ianto Jones," he stuck out his hand for a shake, "I'm the Doctor."

Ianto Jones reluctantly took his hand. He broke away as soon as possible and reached for the phone; a few moments later, he turned aside and said quietly, "Jack? There's a man calling himself—there's—the Doctor's here to see you."

The Doctor strained to hear Jack's response, but got nothing but the buzz of static and Ianto's sigh as he put the phone down. "He'll be right up," he said.

And he was. It was only moments later when part of the wall next to the desk rolled back and Jack Harkness himself strode in. He was beaming and dressed, as always, in his old greatcoat. These past months had finally started to take a toll on it—the great old thing looked a little raggedy around the edges, unlike Jack himself: still as dashing as ever.

"Doctor!" he exclaimed, rushing forwards and wrapping his arms around the Doctor in a warm hug. He didn't seem to notice Ianto's heavy gaze, though the Doctor did. "What's the occasion?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd stop by for a chat." The Doctor couldn't help but smile at Jack's suspicious glare. "Well. Maybe not just a chat—but it doesn't involve the end of the world as we know it this time, promise."

Both Jack's laugh and smile came off a little strained; thinking back on the Year that Never Was must still have been painful. The Doctor couldn't blame him; a day didn't go by where he didn't steer his mind away from painful memories of wrinkled hands and a mocking smile on a youthful face. Now, however, was not the time for reminiscing: the Doctor had come to Cardiff to make new memories, not to get lost in old ones.

"So! Jack." He clapped his hands. "I was taking a quick spin through the Eoix Nebula recently, and I found myself on Barcelona! Not the city, mind you—"

Jack's face fell at once, nearly at the exact same moment that Ianto began, with a lot more force than necessary, shuffling pamphlets and sticking pens and pencils lying around on the counter back into their allotted places. "Oh, Doctor," Jack began, and it had _I'd love to, but_ written all over it.

The Doctor brought up a hand to silence him. "But they've got dogs with no noses! _Hah_!" He hooted with laughter. "I said the same thing to Rose. You know, no matter how many times you tell that joke—" He trailed off, noticing that neither Jack nor Ianto seemed to be appreciating the hilarity. "But…"

Jack shook his head. He threw a quick glance at Ianto, and when he looked back, he seemed more torn than ever. "Doctor, you have to understand. I—"

The Doctor frowned and looked between Jack and Ianto. "Oh, come on," he said, and grinned at Ianto encouragingly. The smile wasn't returned, though he didn't let that daunt him. "Ianto doesn't mind if you go, do you, Ianto?"

Ianto crossed his arms over his chest. "I do mind a bit, actually," he said dryly. He turned to Jack. "Gwen took that case with Nikki Bevan and her son particularly hard. I think if you swanned off at this point—well, she wouldn't be best pleased. I don't think Tosh and Owen would take it that well, either."

"Owen!" exclaimed the Doctor before Jack could say anything. "Owen and Toshiko and Gwen. I heard about them, oh yes."

Jack shot the Doctor a glance that made it clear how much his help was appreciated, and tried to smile at Ianto. "It would only be for a little wh—"

The Doctor perked up. "Oh, you've decided to come along, have you?"

Ianto scowled. "No, he hasn't."

Jack placed a placating hand on his shoulder. "The Doctor and I have a lot to catch up on, Ianto. And it would only be for a little while. Wouldn't it, Doctor?" He rounded on the Doctor with a stern look in his eyes, and got laughter in reply.

"Yes, Jack," the Doctor answered obediently. "I won't keep you long, and I'll return you in tip-top shape, I promise."

Ianto glanced between them and seemed to wilt a little. "Gwen is going to kill you," is all he said.

Jack beamed at him, and the Doctor was halfway out the door when he turned back and saw Jack lean in close to Ianto and run a hand intimately along his jaw, whispering something in a voice too soft for the Doctor to hear. "Stop it," he warned, without really thinking about it.

Jack straightened, though his hand stayed on Ianto's face. Ianto himself didn't do anything about it. "Hey," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "I believe I have every right to be flirting with Ianto. Besides," he flashed a grin, "I don't see him complaining, do you?"

The Doctor shook his head and threw up his arms in exasperation. "I don't _ever_ see anyone complaining, Jack," he sighed, and turned towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Jack pull Ianto close. He averted his eyes as they kissed, feeling very suddenly out of place, and stepped through the open door. It was only a few seconds later that Jack followed, his greatcoat flapping behind him in the breeze. "Boyfriend, is he?" the Doctor asked, not really expecting an answer.

Jack just laughed and strode towards the TARDIS. At the door, he turned back around. "So, where are we going? You said something about…"

"Barcelona," the Doctor supplied. With his hands in his pockets and his head thrown back, eyes to the sky—the image of leisurely genius, or so he hoped—he opened his mouth to explain further, only to stumble and stop short a few feet from the TARDIS' door. Suddenly on edge, the Doctor turned around and eyed the jetty for the source of the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. The wind sent an abandoned newspaper whirling past, but save that, all was still. Frowning, the Doctor turned back to his ship, inside of which Jack was waiting with an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"You coming, Doctor?" he called.

The Doctor shook his head and kicked himself into a trot. "Anyway!" he said, crossing to the console and swallowing the weird upset. It vanished as soon as he laid a hand on the nearest set of switches. "I haven't been to Barcelona in years—never did end up going with Rose—" he smiled fondly, remembering, "but it's lovely there. Beautiful. Like I said, dogs with no noses." He drummed his fingers on the console and prodded at another few buttons. "Humans set up a nice little civilisation there in the sixty-third century, and it's _thriving_! Marketplaces as big as London! Lakes made out of crystal! Do you think you're up for it?"

Jack shrugged his greatcoat off, threw it over the railing, and was at the Doctor's side in an instant. "Let's go," he said with a grin.

The Doctor's face lit up and he turned back to the console. A few more flipped switches and pressed buttons later, he stood back and looked up at the column lighting up before him proudly. "Better hold on, Jack," he said, and then there was a great lurch and they were off.

Somewhere between entering the Vortex and landing with a shudder, the Doctor ended up on the floor, with Jack hanging on to the console for dear life. Not that he needed to, the Doctor couldn't help but think as he stood up and brushed himself off. "We've landed!" he announced, offering Jack a hand.

"I noticed," Jack said, taking the proffered limb and stretching with a groan. "Man, if there was something I didn't miss…"

The Doctor _tsk_ed and wagged a finger. "Don't say that," he said, patting the TARDIS' console gently. "You'll hurt her feelings." With that, he turned and grabbed his coat; he shouldered it as he jogged down the platform to the door. Just before opening it, he turned back to Jack and beamed. "Welcome," he said, throwing the door open and stepping outside, "to—"

The Doctor's smile faded from his face, and he stopped so suddenly that Jack crashed into his back hard enough to make them both stumble.

"What's wrong, Doctor?" Jack said, placing one hand on the Doctor's shoulder and stepping around him to take a good look. "Where are we—some kind of ship?"

The Doctor frowned. "That's what it looks like," he mused, staring up at the metal panels lining the walls and the floors beneath their feet. Without a word, he turned on his heel and returned to the TARDIS. He heard Jack's footsteps clanking on the grating outside. "Careful," he called, not glancing up from the console. "Well, we must be in the wrong place…" His eyes narrowed as his ship told him otherwise. "No—wait—we should be in the middle of the Dalí Market, but—Barcelona's gone. It's just… gone."

Jack poked his head in. "How can it be gone?"

"I don't—oh. _Oh_." The Doctor slapped his forehead, groaning. "_Eighty_-third century. Barcelona's long gone by now!" He looked up with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Burnt to a cinder," he said, softly, mostly to himself. Then, louder: "Well! No matter." He pulled a switch and grabbed the hammer from the panels by his feet. "Off we go!" He glanced up, smiling, only to find that Jack had popped out again. He rolled his eyes. "_Jack_! Come on. Leaving you on a potentially dangerous ship in the middle of the eighty-third century was not part of my plan!"

Before he could continue, Jack's voice rang out, distinctly panicked—"Doctor!"

The Doctor propelled himself to the door in record time, and burst into the hallway. Jack was nowhere to be seen. "Jack!" the Doctor called, feeling a chill run down his spine. "Jack, where've you gone? What's wrong?" No answer, and the Doctor threw up his hands in exasperation. "One day," he grumbled under his breath, moving southwards to a corner, "I'll find someone who knows the meaning of _don't wander off_. I shouldn't have to say it anymore!"

Louder, he added, "Now see what you've done by wandering off! For all I know, you could be, um, hanging from a barrage balloon! Or chatting up the French elite!" He scratched his head, veering over to one side and peering into a porthole. Faint stars, cloaked in darkness, winked in and out of sight beyond the glass. "Though that was me, admittedly. Well, she started it." Mid-ramble, the Doctor rounded the bend—and skidded to a halt at the sight before him.

Jack looked up from where he knelt on the floor. "Doctor," he repeated, softly. His hand was on the neck of a woman lying face down on the floor, fingers pressed against her pulse. "She's dead."

The Doctor swallowed hard. His eyes lingered on her wine-red hair, matted with her own blood and vomit.

Jack, scowling, got to his feet, his hand already on his gun. "And it hasn't been long." He stepped past the Doctor and tossed a wary look back around the corner, towards where the TARDIS was parked. "Do you think—"

The Doctor looked at the discoloured skin of her hands, bone-white against the crimson of her suit and hair, and at the bruise-like circles of purple winding up her arms and legs. Bloody gashes could be seen through holes in her threadbare shirt. He shook his head. "No." The Doctor sunk to his knees and motioned Jack closer. "Help me roll her over."

Jack reluctantly took his hands off his pistol. Without a word, he crouched and leaned forwards, pushing the Doctor's hands away. He gingerly flipped the woman onto her back; at the sight of her face, he recoiled, grimacing. After a moment, Jack steeled himself and, reaching over, pushed a stray lock of red out of her pale face, closing her eyes as he did so. As he retracted his hand, he kept his eyes from her cracked, bloodless lips, still twisted in a last scream; her jaw that hung unhinged, as if something had tried to force its way out of her throat as she died.

The Doctor frowned, eyeing the purple blotches that stained her cheeks—the same as the rest of her body. "I've seen this before." He racked his brains. "She wasn't murdered. She—"

Before he could continue, a low groan issued from around the corner, where the TARDIS was. Jack was on his feet in an instant, hand on his gun, and the Doctor turned to see a man shuffling towards them. His skin was the same white as the woman lying on the floor, and the purple spots had taken up most of his sunken, narrow face. He stretched out an arm towards them, groaning.

Jack pulled the Doctor to his feet and levelled his gun at the man. "Are you sure it wasn't this guy?"

The Doctor swatted the pistol aside with a disapproving click of his tongue and turned back to the newcomer. "Hello," he said, a trifle nervously. "I'm the Doctor. I'm very sorry—your friend here is dead. Could you tell me what's going on? What's your name?"

The man said nothing. Instead, he continued to move towards them, hands spread wide.

Jack shot the Doctor a look. "Doc…"

The Doctor held a finger to his lips, effectively shushing Jack. He turned back to the strange man. "Can you tell me what's going on here? Is this your ship?" Aside, he added to Jack, "There's something awfully familiar about those purple marks." When Jack ignored him and just raised his gun once again, the Doctor frowned and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Just look at the man, Jack! He's about to fall over, not attack us. I think we should be helping him, rather than holding him at gun—"

The 'point' went unsaid, as the zombie launched himself at Jack with a low groan. Open-mouthed, the Doctor sidestepped the assault and gazed on in shock. "I think he likes you!"

The man's hands closed around Jack's forearms, but before he could get any closer, Jack shoved him away with a guttural shout. "Get off me!" His finger twitched on the trigger of his pistol, and even as the Doctor cried out in protest, a bullet buried itself in the man's shoulder.

The Doctor looked on, horrified and speechless, for a moment as the pale man faltered and stumbled on his feet, then rounded on Jack, whose gun was still raised. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Put that down! We can _talk_ to him—"

Jack shook his head. "I don't think he's listening," he muttered, pointing.

Confused, the Doctor whirled back around. The man, seemingly unaffected by the wound in his shoulder, stumbled towards them with his mouth gaping wide. Blood dribbled down its chin and onto the woman on the floor. Droplets rained down on her back, and a strange, almost acidic hissing filled the air. The next moment, the woman—the formerly very, very dead woman—rose to her feet, her bloodless cheeks startlingly pale against the black of her eyes. She and the man stood side by side in the corridor, blocking the way to the TARDIS.

The Doctor, calmly, turned around and gave Jack one word of advice. "Run!"

They took off down the hall as fast as their legs would take them. Every step took them further away from the TARDIS, but they could hear the heavy footfalls of their assailants behind and didn't dare stop. After careening around three corners and ending up in three respective identical hallways, the Doctor caught sight of a small door off to one side and grabbed Jack's sleeve, pulling him close as they burst through the door and into darkness.

Once he closed the door behind them, the shadows were actually so deep that, while the Doctor could vaguely see a hand waving in the still air in front of him, he wasn't sure if it was his or Jack's. The only sound was their breathing and the now faint footsteps.

"Let's see if we can do something about the lights," the Doctor said, feeling around for a wall to lean against. He fished in his pockets for the sonic screwdriver. "Actually, perhaps we ought to wait a little. Don't want to bring any unnecessary attention to ourselves." He smiled as his hand closed around something long and thin, and he pulled the device out with a triumphant _ah-ha_. When Jack didn't join him in the celebration, the Doctor frowned. "Are you all right, Jack? It's not like you to be this quiet. I hope you're actually there, and you've not fallen down a hole, or something…"

"I'm here," Jack's voice answered in the darkness, strained. "Just—a little winded."

The Doctor frowned and turned towards where he hoped Jack was. "Oh, dear," he said. "Gotten a bit out of shape, have you?"

Jack's laugh sounded more like a breathy rattle at the back of his throat. "Maybe," he said, and a hand landed on the Doctor's shoulder, sudden enough to surprise him. "Found you."

The Doctor shook his head. "So you did," he said, and continued looking for a wall. He soon found one, along with what felt like a broom handle, and cleared a space to lean against. Once situated comfortably, he slid down until he was seated on the ground. "You didn't have to shoot him, you know."

Jack plopped into place beside him. "If I hadn't, we'd have sat around talking to him until he started foaming at the mouth," he said dismissively. "He must've been the one that killed her."

The Doctor shrugged, even though he knew Jack couldn't see it. "I don't think so, though," he said. "Those purple marks… I'm sure I've seen them before. It would help if I knew where." He threw up his hands. "Or when. Ah, the troubles of being a time-traveller."

"You think it's a disease?" Jack asked. "Funny sort of plague. I just hope that it's not contagious."

"That _would_ be a bit of a nightmare, wouldn't it?" The Doctor patted what he hoped was Jack's arm. "Good thing, too, that I've had all my vaccinations. Don't know about you, Jack."

"It would be a little hard to get vaccinated for a disease that doesn't exist on Earth," Jack said. "And you might want to move your hand."

"Not your arm?"

"Not quite." Jack reached over and took the Doctor's hand in his. His thumb rubbed gentle circles on the Doctor's palm. "Though I can't say I'm protesting. What do you say? One last shag for condemned men? Doing it in the dark has never really been my thing, but I'm sure I can accommodate."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Seeing as we can get out at any time, I'll have to decline."

"Don't think my offer's exclusive to now," Jack said, and his breath was a warm puff of air on the Doctor's cheek, startlingly near.

"Stop it," the Doctor warned, and his searching gaze found Jack's eyes, mere twin glimmers of light in the darkness. For a few long, tense seconds, they just stared quietly at each other, only a few inches apart. The Doctor was the first to break away, glancing elsewhere and clambering to his feet. "Now's hardly the time to be flirting, Jack." He turned away and fished the sonic screwdriver out from inside the pocket he'd dropped it into. "Now shush. I don't want them finding us because you're yapping away."

He heard Jack getting comfortable. "Sorry."

The Doctor stood and, after a moment's exploration, returned to the door. He pressed his ear against it and listened hard. A few minutes of nothing, and the footsteps outside grew louder, then faded away. "They're gone," he whispered, and turned back around, aiming his screwdriver at the ceiling. In the blue light that the device gave off, he found that Jack had stood and closed the gap between them, and now loomed close; they were almost nose-to-nose. The Doctor swallowed, a little nervously. To break the silence, he asked, "Ready?"

The single light hanging from the ceiling sputtered to life above them, and Jack backed away, smiling. "Back to the TARDIS?"

The Doctor nodded. "Exactamundo!" he said, then frowned and pulled a face. "I said to myself—never again!" He shook his head, ignoring Jack's bemused look, and placed one hand flat against the door, then took a deep breath and pushed.

The brightly lit corridor beyond had the Doctor blinking back a headache, but it was empty. Grinning, he ran out and spun around; before he could celebrate, Jack's arms were roped around his waist, pulling him back against the wall. "Jack!" he protested, pushing back against the firm chest beneath his fingertips. "I understand that you're happy we've escaped, but there's a time and a place—!"

Jack glared at him. "Be quiet, will you," he snapped under his breath. "They'll hear you! And—there might be more of them, so try not to go dancing about, all right?" The Doctor frowned but did as asked, and Jack released him. "Let's go, then."

"This way!" the Doctor said, pointing in what he hoped was the right direction. "I think."

Jack already had a hand on his holster. "Just in case," he said, when the Doctor frowned at him. "Hey, don't give me that look. Those creatures, whatever they are, aren't exactly friendly. I'm not about to get my arm chewed off."

"I'll be the one chewing on it if you continue to wave that gun around." The Doctor threw up his arms in exasperation. "How very Torchwood." Shushing Jack's protest with a finger to his lips, he sidled down the hall and around the corner. "We really should have taken note of some landmarks, or something."

"Like what?" Jack said into his right ear.

The Doctor jumped. "Oh, I don't know," he muttered, passing a hand over his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Let's go." Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out into the next corridor. Behind him, Jack laughed.

"A bit jumpy, aren't you?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "It's that old Harkness charm," he said, turning back to Jack and mock-scowling. The grimace turned into a grin halfway through, only to fade as he watched Jack's eyes stray from his face, watched the amusement on Jack's face vanish, replaced by surprise and fear. The Doctor whirled back around, already knowing what was there.

The man and the woman stood at the junction of the next hallway.

"I think we're going the wrong way," said Jack.

Before the Doctor could reply, the woman leapt towards him, diseased arms spread wide. He staggered back and out of her path as Jack shoved him out of the way, pistol raised. He fired two shots into her torso, then turned to the Doctor and pointed back the way they'd come. "This way!" he shouted, taking the Doctor by the arm and pulling him along as, behind them, the woman got her bearings.

The man was right on their tail as they belted past the broom closet they'd hidden in, back around three corners and through three respective identical corridors. As they turned the final bend, Jack swore as the woman latched onto his coat. He shook her off with a kick and pushed the Doctor into the waiting TARDIS.

The Doctor was at the console in a second, heaving a sigh of relief as he heard Jack slam the door closed. With a click, the lock slid into place, and the Doctor started at the coordinates. "Hold on, we'll be gone in a second. First," he accentuated the word with a jab to the keyboard, "let's make sure no other ships stop by here." He slammed his hand down on a large circular button and spoke to the screen before him: "By order of the Shadow Proclamation, Subsection E-eight-C-dash-Q, Quadrant B of Sector Three must be avoided at all costs. Repeat, avoid Sector Three, Quadrant B."

He pulled away and turned back to Jack, smiling. "Sixty-third century Barcelona," he said, one hand on a lever, "here we come! And I promise to get it right this time."

Jack grinned. "You better," he said, but he sounded out of breath. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The Doctor flipped a switch and moved around the console. "Think about it in terms of anticipation. Dogs with no noses!"

Jack strode up and threw his coat over the railing, laughing. Halfway through, his chuckles turned into a hacking cough, and the Doctor whirled around, startled, just in time to see Jack spit red all over the TARDIS' metal panels. At this moment, however, reprimanding Jack for staining the floor was the furthest thing from his mind.

Then Jack looked up and wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a purple-marked hand. "This is not good," he said, and collapsed.


	2. two

**_An Appointment With Death (2/3)_  
Author:** Crimson Kaoru  
**Pairing(s)/Main Character(s):** Overall: Jack/Tenth Doctor (main), other: Jack/Ianto, Owen, Gwen, Tosh; _this part: Jack/Doctor, Jack/Ianto_  
**Rating:** Overall: PG-13; _this part: PG-13_  
**Word Count:** complete at ~15,500 words; _this part: ~6,700_  
**Spoilers: **_Adrift_, Torchwood-wise, and through series three of Doctor Who.  
**Disclaimer:** _Torchwood _and _Doctor Who_ are property of the BBC, RTD, etc.  
**Summary:** A few months after the Year that Never Was, the Doctor stops by Torchwood with a plan to take Jack on a spin in the TARDIS. He planned a vacation, but thanks to some incorrect coordinates, they find an empty ship, hanging freely in space. It all begins to go downhill when the dead won't stay dead and Jack starts to cough up blood.

**· two ·**

The Doctor roped an arm across Jack's shoulders and dragged him, more or less, to his feet. "So," he said, as he led Jack, half-conscious, through a door and into a cosy, windowless chamber that the TARDIS had kindly made a bedroom, "what's the plan?"

"Torchwood," Jack choked out, stumbling onto the duvet. White-faced, curled up, and looking so young, he seemed to vanish into his great blue coat. He tried vainly to shrug himself out of it, and the Doctor hurried to help as Jack groaned and clutched at his stomach.

The Doctor shook his head. "We can't. You know that. You'd be putting Earth at risk—"

"P-please," Jack begged around a hand pressed against his mouth, as if that would calm his nausea.

The Doctor bit his lip, eyeing the purple mark that had appeared on Jack's neck. "Jack, no. The last thing you want is to put your friends in danger—not to mention the whole world!" He turned towards the door, raking a hand through his hair worriedly. "We could head for a hospital, or the TARDIS could—"

"Torchwood," Jack insisted weakly from the bed. "There could be something," he coughed once, hard, and blood stained the sheets, "from the R-Rift. Something that would help." He paused, riding out another wave of sickness, and when he spoke again, his voice was fraught with pain and fright. "I want to see them. Please, Doc, I just want to—"

The Doctor scrubbed a hand across his face. Through parted fingers, he glimpsed Jack's pale, drawn face, and knew he had lost. "Fine," the Doctor said, leaning in and gently prying the greatcoat from Jack's clenched fingers. "But only for a little while. When things get bad, we're going to find a place to take care of you that isn't Earth or anywhere nearby. All right?"

Jack just nodded, and the Doctor squeezed his shoulder. "We'll be right there," he promised. "Just hold on."

Jack's only response was a low moan, and the Doctor spun on his heel and returned to the control room. He doubled his efforts and they were off in a matter of moments. The trip through the Vortex was unsteady enough that the Doctor hoped that, in the other room, Jack had managed to remain on the cot.

When they touched down in Cardiff, it was with an unsteady lurch that threw the Doctor to the ground; and when he returned to the bedroom, it took a moment to find Jack on the floor on the far side of the bed, head buried in a wastepaper basket.

The Doctor attempted an encouraging smile as he forced Jack upright. It was hard, though, when most of the contents of the bin consisted of Jack's last meal and a healthy heaping of dark red.

"Damn you, Doctor," Jack slurred as he was dragged from the TARDIS and towards the tourist office. "I'll never learn. Next time, I'm not coming with you."

The Doctor flinched, saying nothing as he kicked open the door. He had Jack draped across the front desk in a matter of moments. Ianto sat behind it, same as before, but leapt to his feet at the sight of Jack. When Jack didn't acknowledge a touch to one cheek, no less Ianto's presence, Ianto looked up at the Doctor with a mix of fury and fear brightening his eyes and demanded, "What've you done to him?"

The Doctor scratched his head. "That's a long story," he said, and thought about it. "Well, not really. But now's hardly the time for stories, long or short. Jack told me about the, uh—the Hub. Is this it?"

Ianto swallowed hard and glanced between Jack and the Doctor. Then he reached below the desk, and a panel in the wall slid back. "Down here," he said faintly, and led the way.

The Doctor was sure that, had it been any other situation, he might have taken a moment or two to look around and inspect the wealth of high-tech machinery that Jack's faithful team had at their grubby little fingertips, then take it away before they could go about destroying the Earth with it. But that would have to wait, because right now Jack was a dead weight in his arms, and—immortal or not—he was about to take one hell of a bruising.

Ianto was still a few steps ahead, quieting two women and a very pale man with dark hair and darker eyes, so still despite all the action around him. The Doctor stopped for a moment and stared at him, a frown twisting his mouth as he realised what was wrong. Shaking his head and clucking to himself, he turned and ambled over to the couch, still lugging Jack behind him. The Doctor deposited Jack amongst the cushions as gently as he was able, then turned back to those who he presumed were Jack's team.

"Hello," he said brightly, striding over with a grin. With his head cocked to one side, he examined each human in turn. Identification was easy, now that he'd gotten Ianto out of the way. The Doctor pointed at a pretty, petite Japanese woman. "Toshiko." He turned to the confused- and familiar-looking brunette beside her. "Gwen, I presume?" Which left the walking dead. "And you must be Owen." He extended a hand; when no one made a move to take it, he dropped it and just chose to keep smiling, instead. "Nice to meet you."

"Ianto?" Gwen glanced at the Doctor worriedly, then at Jack lying, motionless, on the couch. "I thought you said Jack was going away for a while." She made a rather pathetic attempt at a smile as she backed over to the sofa. "What's wrong with him?"

The Doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Bit of a pestilence," he said.

Owen glowered at him. "Is it contagious?"

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that," the Doctor said dismissively, and turned back to Jack. "But no. Despite that I'm sure you know all about me already," he called over his shoulder, "I'm the Doctor. As lovely as it is to meet you all, proper introductions will have to wait, because right now we need to attend to much more important things. After all, Jack's told me so much about you, and if we don't do something, I won't ever have the joy of hearing him rattling on about his friends ever again."

Ianto was at Jack's side at once, a tender hand on his face. "Jack's immortal." The concern breaking his voice betrayed his cool demeanour.

"Yeah…" The Doctor fiddled with his spectacles. "That's the thing."

Ianto's head whipped around so fast that the Doctor bit back a comment on whiplash. Beside him, Gwen's eyes were wide, and he could feel Toshiko's gaze burning into the back of his head. He even saw worry in the tilt of Owen's scowl.

"What do you mean?" Ianto demanded, rising.

"That's the thing about this disease…" The Doctor shrugged and moved to the couch. He pushed past Ianto, who stepped back as if stung, and knelt beside Jack. "I was right," the Doctor whispered in a low voice, one hand hovering by Jack's face. He was struck with the sudden urge to push the hair out of his eyes. "I have seen this before. Forty-fifth century, planet of Caberous…" He shook his head. "They were wiped out. I couldn't do anything."

Gwen's voice chimed in from behind him, halfway to hysterical already. "That doesn't sound very good."

The Doctor flapped a hand in the air and eyed her over his shoulder. "You don't have to worry."

She massaged her temples and took a deep, steadying breath. "It's not me I'm worried about!" she snapped. Her pale hands fluttered in the air before settling on Ianto's arm, as if to comfort him. Or maybe hold him back; he did look a bit like he was about to leap forwards and attack. All part of Jack's charm, the Doctor supposed. "What about Jack? What's so special about this disease?"

"Well, it doesn't leave the body after death." The Doctor ignored the team's horrified glances, and quietly moved aside to let Ianto sit down beside Jack. He tried to give him a comforting smile, but Ianto refused to respond; he was too busy lifting Jack's head into his lap, pushing the dark hair from his face. The Doctor still sort of wished he'd done that instead.

The sound of Owen clearing his throat jerked the Doctor out of his thoughts; he shook his head and got his mind back on track. "Ah, yes. Sorry. So, after death, the disease just… lingers there. For a while, anyway. It waits until a new carrier comes along, and then transfers itself by touch. Any touch." The Doctor turned a grim eye on Ianto, who lurched back. "No worries! Well, unless he dies. Then we'll really have something to worry about. Quarantining, we can do that easily enough. Unfortunately, that won't be the end of it; the disease isn't that easily destroyed. No new carriers? It just uses the old one to find another."

Owen frowned. "So, wait—are we in danger right now? Thanks to his inability to keep his hands off Jack, is tea boy," he jerked his head at Ianto, who whirled around to scowl at him, "now infected?"

The Doctor shook his head. "It doesn't spread until the carrier dies," he repeated, slower. "And it's at that point that things gets a lot more dangerous. Jack here is a very unique specimen—I believe the disease will suspend his ability to revive properly, and instead, he'll get back up as a reanimated corpse, bent on finding new hosts."

"A zombie?" Toshiko asked, a hand over her mouth.

Ianto spoke up before the Doctor could confirm this. "We have to keep him alive."

"Yes, I've figured out that bit," the Doctor said, and stood. He could feel Ianto glaring at the back of his head, but didn't have time to feel guilty. "We need to find out more about this disease."

Gwen crossed her arms over her chest. "I thought you said you knew what it was."

The Doctor looked sheepish. "I do, yeah," he mumbled into his collar. "I know what it's called, but that's about it. I don't know how it works, but I can still make a guess at how much time we have." He eyed Jack for a moment and fell silent. It was only the sound of footsteps as Toshiko backed into a chair that reminded him of where he was. "Twenty-four hours," he said quickly, giving himself a shake and turning back to the team. "At most. Which is why I need you to run some tests. Do we have any doctors here?"

Owen raised his hand, then promptly lowered it and mumbled something about looking like an idiot.

"Great. Take some blood; there should be traces of alien DNA in it, which will help us—or me, really—figure out what needs to be done." He glanced back at Jack, who was still not moving. The only indication that he was even slightly conscious was the low moan that issued from the couch as soon as the Doctor turned back to Owen. "And treat the symptoms. Keep him comfortable as possible. Keep him alive." Owen nodded and started forwards, but was stopped by a palm flat against his chest. "Ah, but don't move him. Really, don't move him. I think he'd upend all the food still in his stomach all over you if you even tried that."

Owen frowned, but took a step back. As he turned to leave, he caught Gwen's arm and spoke to her, his voice hushed. When he walked away, she followed him reluctantly with a last look at Jack. They disappeared past a partition and the Doctor clapped his hands. "Okay!" he said. "Halfway there." He smiled encouragingly at Toshiko, who was too busy biting her lip and staring at Jack and Ianto to respond. "I assume you have archives," the Doctor went on, dragging a hand through his hair. "This disease might not exist on this planet until twenty centuries from now, give or take a few, but you still might have something that could help."

"I can show you," Toshiko said uncertainly, and threw a glance at Ianto. "But it's not really my area of expertise…"

The Doctor followed her gaze and reached down to grab Ianto's arm. He jerked violently at the touch, but allowed himself to be tugged off of the couch. "That's your job," the Doctor said. "Jack told me. I need to see everything you've got."

Ianto pulled out of the Doctor's hold. "I'm staying with Jack," he bit out. "He needs me."

The Doctor smiled grimly. "You're right," he said softly, turning and just watching Jack for a moment. He felt Ianto's gaze burning into him, and the Doctor looked up and met his gaze, his expression shuttered. "Right now, he needs you to help me. He needs you to save him."

Ianto hesitated, and Toshiko stepped forwards. "I'll stay with him, Ianto," she offered, her large eyes wide and earnest. "You don't have to worry."

The Doctor didn't have the heart to tell her no, so he just nodded. Pacified, Ianto moved towards a nearby door without a word. The Doctor followed, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over a chair as he went.

He was halfway to where Ianto had stopped to wait when he heard Jack's voice.

He whirled around and started back at double the pace; behind him, Ianto clattered over the metal floors to get back to the couch first. There, Toshiko was bent over Jack and shushing him gently, cradling his head in her arms. Ianto got there first and knelt beside Jack, reaching forwards to stroke the hair from his feverish face. From where he stood, the Doctor could see Jack's eyes rolling in his head, could see his lips mouthing _Doctor_.

"Jack?" Ianto whispered. "Jack, it's me; it's Ianto…"

Jack shook his head and nearly fell off the couch in doing so. Weakly, he croaked, "Doctor—I need the—"

The Doctor winced as Ianto lurched to his feet as if he'd been slapped. "He wants you," Ianto said shortly, and stepped back a few feet, letting the Doctor cross to where Jack lay. Only when he passed did the Doctor notice that Ianto was shaking.

"Shh," the Doctor said, kneeling beside Jack and brushing one hand across his cheek. "I'm here, Jack. It's me."

Jack went still at the touch and tried at a lopsided smile. "It—it's bad," he whispered. "Really bad. I can't… I just can't—can't take it anymore. I need—"

The Doctor bit his lip. "I know. I'm sorry. We're working on it. I promise it won't be too much longer. We'll find an antidote."

Jack shook his head and groaned. "But I—antidote—"

"Soon, Jack." The Doctor smiled sadly and squeezed Jack's clammy hands. "I swear to you. I'm not—" He looked down and scrubbed a hand over his face, then leaned in and whispered, too soft for anyone but Jack to hear, "I won't lose you."

With one last touch to Jack's pale, drawn face, the Doctor stood. Ianto didn't say a word as he led the way down to the archives, and over their footsteps, the Doctor could hear Jack calling for him, endlessly crying out.

Like he'd been abandoned.

-

The Doctor sighed and sagged against the row of shelves rising up to the ceiling before him. "Nothing," he sighed, exasperated. "There's _nothing_." He ran one hand through his hair. "I find it hard to believe that not a single artefact that would be helpful in this situation has fallen through the Rift since you started cataloguing it all." He returned to the files. "No encyclopaedia of forty-fifth century diseases? No antidote almanacs?"

Ianto glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and set down the file he had been rifling through. "I'm sorry, sir," he said blankly. "I can check again, but perhaps we should go upstairs and check if Owen has had any luck with the blood work."

The Doctor shoved a folder back in its rightful place and turned to him, nodding. For a moment, Ianto just stared back at him, and the Doctor guessed that he must have looked quite a sight: covered in a fine layer of dust from the records he'd been unearthing, his dark hair a mess of wild spikes, spectacles lodged crookedly on the end of his nose. He pushed them up distractedly and gestured to the door. "Lead the way. And don't call me sir."

Ianto ducked his head in the smallest of nods and moved towards the Doctor. For a moment, they stood side by side in a silence broken only by the howl of some creature far below them, and then Ianto said, "Will he be all right?"

The Doctor hesitated. Eventually, he answered, "I don't know."

It wasn't what Ianto wanted to hear. Without a word, he strode to the door and left the Doctor standing in the dust. Ianto's steps were heavy, and though his back was ramrod straight, there was a subtle shake to his shoulders that was only noticeable if it was looked for.

The Doctor scratched his head and resolved to work on his bedside manner before jogging up the stairs after Ianto.

The Hub was the same as he'd left it a few hours before. Jack lay on the couch, his head in Toshiko's lap. She was humming to him softly, her gentle hands soothing his warm skin, but as soon as she saw the Doctor and Ianto surfacing from the archives she carefully manoeuvred Jack's heads onto the cushions and stood. He groaned in protest. "Did you find anything?" she asked.

Ianto shook his head and glanced back at the plastic partition through which Owen and Gwen had disappeared. As the Doctor crossed the room towards it, Ianto sighed and turned back to Toshiko, asking, "Any luck with the tests?"

The Doctor pushed under the clear sheet and found Gwen sitting on an autopsy table in the middle of a small, circular room down a flight of winding stairs. She was swinging her legs back and forth over the edge and clutching the side of the table as she watched Owen putter around with two beakers full of blood. After watching for a moment in silence, the Doctor cleared his throat. Owen nearly dropped the vials in surprise and whirled around. Gwen just gave him a half-hearted smile.

"How is the blood work going?" the Doctor asked, drumming his fingers on the railing.

Owen grimaced and bent to pick up a fallen scalpel. "Not so great," he grumbled. "It's pretty hard to isolate the alien DNA when Jack's DNA is already pretty damn alien." He picked up a syringe and handed it to Gwen. "I'm swamped here; can you handle this?" he said to her, before noticing the Doctor's curious gaze. "It's to control Jack's nausea," he added. "Knock him out for a while."

The Doctor leaned over the rail and stretched out a hand. "I'll do it," he said, and after a moment's hesitation, Gwen handed it over. With a grateful smile, he turned and strode back to the couch; Toshiko obediently moved aside to give him room, and he sat down beside Jack, grabbed one arm, and rolled up the sleeve. "Hello," he said softly.

Jack blinked up at him blearily. "Antidote," he said, and it wasn't a question.

The Doctor shook his head. "Not yet," he said, slipping the needle in as gently as he could. "Won't be long now." He smiled encouragingly, but Jack shook his head and fought to move his arm, nearly jarring the syringe. The Doctor held him still. "Relax. It'll help you sleep."

Jack groaned, half-delirious. "Stop," he whispered, trying to bat the Doctor's hands away. "It's _here_! Stop, stop—_stop it_!" Suddenly, Jack's large hands were fisting in the Doctor's collar, pushing him back. "Listen!" Jack said urgently, and tried to lift his head. Seeming to find it too heavy, he sagged against the couch with a defeated moan. "You… listen—in my office—"

The Doctor shushed him as he carefully removed the needle. "This will make things a little easier," he said gently, not understanding. "Now, tell me. What's in your office? Do you want a blanket?"

Jack batted the empty syringe out of the Doctor's hands and grabbed his wrists, this time to pull him in close. "You told me," he said haltingly. "Months ago. A letter. Had a little vial, green stuff." Jack shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. His eyes rolled in his head and finally focussed on the Doctor, only centimetres away. "Your handwriting. 'Antidote,' it said. 'Need—later.'"

The Doctor frowned. "Jack, I don't… I can't have sent you a letter with the antidote in it if it was months ago, like you said. How would I have even—" With a start, he jerked out of Jack's hold and shot to his feet, slapping his forehead. "Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey," he exclaimed, and grinned down at Jack. "You're brilliant! You're absolutely brilliant!" Beaming, he spun on his heel and called, "Everybody! Come here."

Within seconds, all four of Jack's faithful companions were gathered before him.

"This better be good," Owen grumbled, exchanging a sour glance with Gwen. "I think I might've been on the verge of actually finding something."

The Doctor smiled toothily. "You don't need to!" he all but sang. The quartet gaped at him. "It all makes sense now," he continued excitedly, beginning to pace back and forth. His hands automatically flew to his hair, tugging it into wild shapes as he thought his plan over. "It's here," he said, softly, "but it would be safer to properly fetch it first, because the paradox would be compounded—and that'd be a disaster—"

He noticed the blank stares he was getting from all gathered before him, and hastened to explain. "Caberous was decimated in the forty-fifth century. After that, they finally gave the disease a name—Caber's Syndrome. And it was—oh, must have been the forty-eighth century, at least—on Caberous' twin planet that they found the cure! After centuries and centuries of studying, they were finally able to create a vaccine."

Owen crossed his arms over his chest. "So? That's twenty centuries from now, and on a different planet, to boot."

The Doctor pointed at himself, beaming. "But me, I've got the TARDIS. I can go and fetch it, bring it back here, and voila!"

"The what?" asked Ianto softly.

The Doctor shook his head. "My ship, it's called the TARDIS. That's Time and Relative Dimension in Space. T-A-R-D-I-S. Remember that. Anyway—do you understand? Jack's as good as cured!" He scratched an ear. "Well, it may take a bit of recuperation, but the point is that he'll be okay! Might sleep for a day or so. But soon he'll be back on his feet. Isn't that great, team?" He frowned. "Oh, no, not team. Gang. No. Comrades. Um, Jack's friends."

Ianto smiled properly and moved past the Doctor. He knelt beside Jack; his fingers slid across Jack's cheekbones in a caress that was intimate enough for the Doctor to be uncomfortable watching it. "You're going to be okay, Jack," Ianto whispered. "Everything's going to be okay."

The Doctor rocked on the balls of his feet and laughed. "Don't tell me you expected anything less!" Four heads whipped towards him, and he gave a little wave and flashed a smile. "Hello, I'm the Doctor, and I can do anything." For a moment, the happiness on his face flickered. "Well. Almost anything. But I've done good here, haven't I?"

Owen rolled his eyes and turned back to the autopsy bay, but the Doctor caught him peering over his shoulder at Jack, obviously relieved. Gwen had joined Ianto by Jack's side and they spoke together, voices hushed. Toshiko floundered by her desk, looking a little lost for what to do in the wake of the good news. Eventually, she offered the Doctor a shy smile and followed Owen.

The Doctor watched her go, then turned back to Jack. He wormed himself between Ianto and Gwen and crouched beside him, grinning. One hand rose, hovering in the air by Jack's face, and this time the Doctor worked up the courage to brush his fingers lightly across Jack's jaw. He stopped, a little too late, when his thumb dragged across Jack's bottom lip. Beside him, Ianto went still, and the Doctor watched Jack's eyelids flutter. He pulled his hand away. "Hello," he said cheerfully, as Jack blinked a greeting. "I'm going to go get that antidote now, okay? I'll be back soon, I promise."

Jack nodded weakly. "You better," he whispered. A clammy hand found one of the Doctor's and held on like a lifeline. "Hurry the hell up."

The Doctor laughed and squeezed Jack's hand before sitting back on his heels. "Will do," he promised, standing and clapping Ianto briskly on the shoulder. "Keep him comfy," he said, and left before anything more could be said. He could still feel Ianto and Gwen's eyes burning into his back long after he'd found his way back up to the office and out the door, into the evening.

The TARDIS was waiting obediently outside, and in no time at all he was standing beside the console, staring around at the array of technology spreading out before him. Feeling instantly at home, the Doctor flipped a switch here and there, pulled down a few levers, spun a couple of dials, and whacked away at a red button with his hammer. With a quick adjustment to the coordinates—Kystor, sister planet of Caberous, forty-eighth century—he took off through the Vortex.

It was a less turbulent trip than most; the Doctor managed to stay standing without the help of something to grab onto, if only just. Once he'd touched down on what he could only pray was actually Kystor in the forty-eighth century, and not somewhere disastrous (like, for instance, Caberous in the forty-fifth), the Doctor tugged on his coat and crossed to the door. He flung it open and stepped out with a flourish.

Rising before him—endless, needle-like—was a single tower. Behind it, the ruins of Caberous glowed red-black, like a sun, making the minaret's edges sharp; it stood jaggedly against the horizon—an ancient relief. The light revealed the green crescent moon carved into one wall, and the Doctor beamed. He'd been right on target this time. With a pleased whistle, he jammed his hands in his pockets and started towards the hospital.

No sooner had he spotted the front door than two armed guards stepped up and blocked his way. Human, dressed all in black, with red caps strongly reminiscent of UNIT. The Doctor gave a little wave."Hello."

The first guard lowered his gun. "Unless you are here on official business, I'm afraid we cannot permit you to enter the building." At the Doctor's disappointed face, the man shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir. A top-secret study is underway, and we've been told to stop any visitors at the door."

The Doctor peered over the guard's shoulder at the building ahead, all the while discreetly digging into his pocket for the psychic paper. "The Caber's Syndrome experiment, am I correct?" He just smiled at the men's shocked faces and held up the little leather-lined pad so they could see. "As you can see, I'm part of it. My name is John Smith; I lived in Caberous for a long time, and they've called me in to oversee the results."

The guards fumbled with their weapons in their haste to step aside. "Yes, sir," one of them said apologetically. "We did not recognise you, Mr. Smith. Very sorry, sir. Go right ahead."

The Doctor smiled and flapped a hand in the air. "As you were," he said breezily, and continued into the hospital. Once he was well out of earshot, he turned back to the guards, now standing perfectly straight with their backs to the door, and chuckled. "Always wanted to say that," he said to himself, and made his way up to the front desk. Grinning, he dangled himself over the counter and wagged his psychic paper in the air in front of the bewildered clerk. "Hello," he said, "I'm John Smith, and I'm working on the Caber's Syndrome vaccine. I'm sorry; I'm new here, and I've forgotten which one my ward is."

The clerk shuffled the papers on the desk and adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses. If it wasn't for the feelers on her forehead, she could've been as human as the guards standing outside. "Yes, of course," she said, using her antennas to press a few keys on the near-transparent computer screen hanging in the air before her. "What exactly do you do?"

The Doctor paused and scratched his head. The clerk raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged, brushing invisible lint from the front of his suit. "Um, I, you know." He flashed a grin. "I'm that guy who is dragged in at the last minute to oversee the final product. Test it out, all that."

"Right…" Despite her obvious suspicion, she summed up an overly polite smile and pushed another button on the monitor. "You'll want Ward Twenty-three, Mr. Smith. It was Mr. Smith, wasn't it?"

"That's right." The Doctor grinned and eyed his surroundings. Upon discovering a nearby elevator, he nodded at the clerk and moved on. "Ward Twenty-three," he called over his shoulder, giving her a two-fingered salute and a wink. "Thank you!"

Any response the clerk made was lost in the rapid sound of clicking from the computer suspended in front of her.

He clambered into the elevator with Ward Twenty-three in mind, and smiled at the other creatures crowding the small space. Once the lift had screeched to a halt at the correct floor, he disentangled himself as painlessly as possible, but nevertheless nearly walked right into a short, red man with a veritable conker for a head that reminded him, a little too much, of the cyborg Bannakaffalatta. He dismissed that thought and made sure he had his psychic paper at the ready as he walked towards the entrance of the ward.

Beside the door was a tiny speaker. After clearing his throat nervously, the Doctor leaned in, pressed the button, and said, "Uh, hello. My name is John Smith, and I—"

Before he could go on, the door next to the speaker slid open and a man dressed in a white decontamination suit stepped out. With a groan, he removed his glass-plated helmet and shoved it under his arm, revealing himself to be a pale young fellow with a shaggy mop of dark hair. He scarcely looked old enough to be working, but his smile was kind and wise beyond his years as he used his free hand to shake the Doctor's. "Greetings," he said, stepping away from the door. It shut automatically behind him. "What brings you to Ward Twenty-three? I don't believe I've seen you here before. And yet you got past security, so you must be of reasonable importance." The young man smiled and mopped at his brow with a cloth he produced from a pocket on his calf. "I'm James Horne, head researcher and scientist here at Kystoria Hospice. Welcome. What did you say your name was?"

The Doctor grinned and fished out his psychic paper. "John Smith, at your service," he said, holding it up. "I'm here to borrow a sample of the Caber's Syndrome vaccine. I believe I talked to one of your assistants a few weeks ago about coming here to get it. It was a long way for me, so…" He bit off a laugh and nodded gratefully as James pressed a button on the wrist of his suit. The door into Ward Twenty-three obediently slid back open.

"Where's that accent from, then?" asked James as they made their way through the ward. "Did you just pitch up from Earth?"

The Doctor scratched his ear. "I did, yeah," he said, then added, "My great-great-grandmother was born on Caberous. She and her parents managed to get out before, well, you know."

James shook his head and sighed. "Only a lucky few escaped." He offered a quick smile, reaching over with a gloved hand to clap the Doctor on the back. "We'll never suffer a tragedy like that again, thanks to our scientists." Still beaming, he turned left, and the Doctor followed him down yet another white-walled corridor. There wasn't a single other person to be seen, and the Doctor fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable.

"So," he said. "Where is everybody?"

"Oh, they're all scattered about the labs," said James dismissively. "We keep our finished samples in a safer place. Surely you talked to one of my secretaries about that, didn't you? Which was it? Probably Charice."

The Doctor shot a wary glance down an adjacent hallway. Empty. "Yes, I do believe it was her," he mumbled. "Nice girl."

James grimaced. "If you say so," he said, half-jokingly, stopping in front of a door with a golden nameplate—'Icehouse,' the Doctor read—and fishing a ring of keys from his pocket. "Here we are," he said, and led the way in.

The first thing the Doctor noticed was that it was blisteringly cold. The second was the sight of rows and rows of shelves, stretching up to a ceiling that vanished into darkness. Each was lined with beaker after beaker of colourful liquid. "Quite a collection you have," he said, whipping on his spectacles to examine one of the nearer tubes before turning back to James and eyeing his protective suit. "Should I be wearing one of those?"

"Only if you're planning on going to the lab." James smiled and gestured to a whole shelf full of green beakers. "This is the new supply of the vaccine you're looking for. What do you want it for again?"

The Doctor took the nearest vial and stuffed it in his pocket. "Oh, you know," he said. "This and that. The company I work for is planning on running an excavation of Caberous. Thought we might need a sample of this stuff, just in case."

James whistled, impressed. "Daring," he said. "I didn't realise any human corporation had any plans like that. Where do you work? I'm surprised I haven't heard." He ran a hand through his thick hair and laughed. "Maybe I've been cooped up in this boring place too long, eh?"

The Doctor chuckled. "It's possible," he agreed, and fell silent. His plan to not answer was foiled by James' expectant gaze. "Um, well. It's the—"

A loud beeping saved him from answering, and a woman's voice—the clerk, from the front desk, the Doctor realised—began to talk over an intercom system somewhere high overhead.

"Building is going into lockdown," she droned. "Repeat. Building is going into lockdown. We have been infiltrated. There is an intruder calling himself John Smith; he will claim to work here. He is approximately six feet tall, wearing a blue suit, and has brown hair. Repeat. Intruder alert! Intruder alert!"

The Doctor grimaced, then met James' eyes one final time and mouthed, 'I'm sorry,' at the young man's shocked face. Then, without another word, the Doctor pivoted on his heel and streaked out the door. He was already halfway down the hallway by the time he heard James footsteps clattering on the tiled floor behind him.

Unfortunately, as he ran, the Doctor rediscovered that all the hallways in Ward Twenty-three of the Kystoria Hospice looked exactly the same. He sprinted at top speed, careening around corners and taking stairs two at a time, and nearly crashed into a confused group of scientists who had wandered out of one of the labs at the interruption. Without stopping to apologise, he pushed past them and took a running leap over a cart stopped in the middle of the corridor. He hadn't seen that on his way in, which was faintly worrying, but the Doctor knew there had to be a back exit somewhere.

So he kept running. Down a spiral staircase and through a door into another set of hallways, then past a few more men dressed in white lab coats. They were too stunned to try and stop him, though the Doctor heard them start up after him as they were rallied by James, who was still faithfully giving chase.

The Doctor didn't look back, but he didn't pay all that much attention to where he was going, either, so it came as a total surprise when he knocked the tiny red Bannakaffalatta look-alike that he'd seen in the lift earlier clean to the floor. He was so busy apologising that he ran face-first into a door. "I'm sorry!" he called a final time, and twisted the knob viciously. It was locked, so as quickly as he could, he whipped out the sonic screwdriver and put it to use.

He could hear James and the other scientists' footsteps coming closer and closer. Groaning, the Doctor pressed the screwdriver closer, mumbling varied curses and demands to hurry up under his breath. Behind him, he heard the small red man sit up, just at the same time as the door gave a beautiful _click_ and came free.

Just at that moment, James and his cronies came whirling around the corner.

The Doctor let out a hiss of exasperated breath and wrenched the door open. He looked back just in time to see the group of scientists fall to the floor with a loud cry; having not seen the Bannakaffalatta look-alike sitting on the floor, James had tripped right over him, and seconds later, the others had tumbled over him. A grin pulled at the corners of the Doctor's mouth, and he laughed and gave a whoop of triumph as he slammed the door behind him and skittered down the steps.

The outside steps. Wide-eyed with surprised elation, the Doctor spun around, grinning, and gazed up at the minaret rising into the sky before him. His triumph was cut short when the door he'd just gone through was kicked open and James appeared, chest heaving, eyes alight.

With a last wave, the Doctor turned and ran. As fast as he could, he rounded the building—and there was the TARDIS. He tore towards it as fast as his legs would take him. The rapid doublebeat of his hearts didn't quite drown out the shouts of the guards on his tail and the droning of the woman still babbling from the intercom. But it was too late; the TARDIS was already at his fingertips—

Just for a second, the Doctor turned and took one last look at Kystor, thriving in the forty-eighth century, and the ruins of Caberous burning alongside it.

Then he slammed the door and raced up to the console. Quick as he could, he fumbled to set the coordinates back to Earth. No sooner had he heard a clattering from outside than the TARDIS was swept up into the Vortex.

Laughing with relief, the Doctor collapsed into his seat and leaned back, chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. His eyes slipped shut. "Won't be able to come back here again," he half-grumbled, half-wheezed. "And this is all Jack's fault."

But then he pictured Jack, pale and feverish all the way back on Earth. He thought of Jack how he should be, vibrant and _constant_ in a way that was no longer jarring: how he would be. And the Doctor thought, _It's worth it._


	3. three

**_An Appointment With Death (3/3)_  
Author:** Crimson Kaoru  
**Pairing(s)/Main Character(s):** Overall: Jack/Tenth Doctor (main), other: Jack/Ianto, Owen, Gwen, Tosh; _this part: Jack/Doctor, Jack/Ianto_  
**Rating:** Overall: PG-13; _this part: PG-13_  
**Word Count:** complete at ~15,500 words; _this part: ~4,000_  
**Spoilers: **_Adrift_, Torchwood-wise, and through series three of Doctor Who.  
**Disclaimer:** _Torchwood _and _Doctor Who_ are property of the BBC, RTD, etc.  
**Summary:** A few months after the Year that Never Was, the Doctor stops by Torchwood with a plan to take Jack on a spin in the TARDIS. He planned a vacation, but thanks to some incorrect coordinates, they find an empty ship, hanging freely in space. It all begins to go downhill when the dead won't stay dead and Jack starts to cough up blood.

**· three ·**

By the time the TARDIS hurled itself free of the Vortex and landed on Earth with a rather disconcerting clunk, the Doctor was already pulling his coat around his shoulders and making for the door. With one last check that the beaker was still safe in his pocket, he stepped out into Cardiff.

The Doctor blinked. He looked up at the sky, one hand shielding his eyes from the rain pelting down. It hadn't been raining when he left, but now the clouds were hanging low and dark, and wind whipped his coattails about him. The streets were, for the most part, empty, and the puddles on the ground suggested that the weather had been like this for hours.

With worry settling in his stomach, he walked over to a rubbish bin. Lying on top of it was a soaked newspaper. He picked it up and shook it out, drenching his front in the process, and found the date in a corner. The Doctor pushed sopping hair from his eyes and blinked rain away, and looked at the date again. Months. Months before he'd arrived to sweep Jack off his feet, only weeks after the Year that Never Was.

The Doctor dropped the newspaper and ran a hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face and up into spikes that were, only seconds later, plastered once again to his forehead. He mapped his face slowly with one hand, fingers dragging along the stubble at his chin, and leaned back, head tilted towards the sky, mouth open and eyes closed. He barely noticed the chill rain sliding across his cheeks and down inside his collar.

And then he thought back on what Jack had said.

_You told me. Months ago. A letter. Had a little vial, green stuff. Your handwriting._The panic coiling inside him vanished, washed away by the warm tones of Jack's voice. Relief made the Doctor a little unsteady on his feet, and he hurried back to the TARDIS, unearthing a piece of paper and a pen that his courteous ship had conjured.

'Dear Jack,' he wrote. 'Take this beaker and store it somewhere safe. A time will come when you'll need it. You'll know when. Until then, leave it alone.' The Doctor chuckled lightly, knowing that the cryptic message would make Jack even more keen to analyse the substance inside the this, all that was needed had been said; the Doctor went to write his goodbyes, only to pause as a thought struck him. He stood there, tapping his pen against his lip absently, for a good thirty seconds before laughing and penning, 'Love, the Doctor.' Satisfied, he folded the paper into thirds and stuffed it in his pocket.

Venturing into the tourist office meant that he might encounter Ianto, which, needless to say, was not a good idea. The Doctor settled for slipping the note under the door, then rushed back to the TARDIS before Ianto could poke his head out the door to see whom the mysterious letter was from.

Beaming, the Doctor hummed an energetic melody to himself as he rerouted his ship back to the right time. He righted the coordinates, flipped a pair of switches, and he was off. The trip was a short one, but rocky; when the TARDIS touched down, the Doctor was pressed into the metal floor panels. He rose, and a screen on the console showed an imprint of the grating on one cheek. He rubbed at it impatiently with his sleeve; once his face was red and burning but mark-free, he crossed the room and flung open the door.

And stopped dead.

This time, the TARDIS had landed on the street above the tourist office, and below him, on the boardwalk, he saw himself. Same suit, and while it hadn't been long since he saw the back of his own head, it was still a refreshing sight. Frowning, he willed the version of himself standing on the pier to run a hand through his hair. It was lying annoyingly flat.

Unfortunately for him, the Doctor standing below did no such thing. Instead, he adjusted his glasses and stepped up to the door. Once he was gone, the Doctor standing bewildered in the street reached up, wide-eyed, to adjust his hair. Absently tugging it into appropriately dramatic shapes, he looked around at the two TARDISes and bit his lip. He'd messed up royally in the past—missed the date by one hundred years, or twelve months for twelve hours—but crossing his own timeline was dangerous.

The Doctor jumped backwards as he saw himself re-emerge, this time with Jack in tow. He knew now that he was the cause of the strange sensation he'd felt earlier—a Time Lord sensing another Time Lord, distorted by the fact that it was the _same _Time Lord—and ducked down behind a rubbish bin. Just in time: no sooner had he hid than the version of him below glanced around in confusion, then brushed it off and disappeared into his ship after later, that TARDIS disappeared, taking that Doctor and Jack away on a doomed trip, and the Doctor above straightened up with a sigh. He wasn't that far off, at least. A few hours wait and the first version of himself would head off to the forty-eighth century, and then he could come dashing back in.

At a loss for what to do, the Doctor hung back and took a look around. Outside a small café, a dark-haired woman chatted with a blond policeman. He recognised her as Gwen Cooper and ducked out of her sight. It wouldn't do to have her spot him.

For a few long hours, he perched on the rail, waiting for the TARDIS to reappear and for himself to come out of it, dragging Jack behind him. Once Gwen had slipped off with a heavyset man (who the police officer had, quite noticeably, detested), he popped into the café for a drink. When he came out again, he saw Gwen returning to the Hub; it wasn't long after that that the Doctor heard some familiar noises: the clink of the TARDIS' gears, the whoosh of air as the ship materialised below. He hurriedly jumped off the rail and crouched behind it, preparing to get reacquainted with the back of his head.

The sight of Jack—unsteady on his feet, blood dripping from one corner of that pale, pale face—tied the Doctor's stomach into knots. It took a few moments to shake the sensation away.

And the Doctor waited. Night fell and the streets cleared. Once or twice, he dozed off; the second time, he nearly fell from the rail.

The moon was high in the sky by the time he finally spotted himself emerging from the office. That version of himself didn't spare a sideways glance as he hurried into the TARDIS; only moments later, it vanished, and the Doctor didn't waste a moment before hurrying down the steps and through the door. He found, with some difficulty, the button behind the front desk, and dashed down the now-opened passage beside it, into the Hub.

Ianto looked up from Jack's side as he entered. Gwen stood beside them, just as she had when the Doctor left. Owen poked his head through the plastic partition that shielded the autopsy bay from sight. Toshiko was a blurry blue shape behind it.

"I thought—weren't you going to—" Ianto started, rising. His brow drew together, worried and angry. "I thought you were going to get the cure."

The Doctor beamed and put on his spectacles. "I did!"

Owen scowled, unconvinced. "Jesus, that was quick."

The Doctor nodded. "Time machine," he said flippantly, and knelt beside Jack. Owen's "Where is it?" went unanswered. "I'm here," the Doctor said softly, and Jack's eyes fluttered open. He looked confused.

"You've only just gone out the door," he said.

"Yeah." The Doctor scratched his ear. "Went and got the cure, wrote that letter, um, then came back here a little early. I've been waiting out there for hours. Crossed my own timeline, can you imagine? Ooh, I bet you can, actually." He laughed softly. Jack tried to join in, but his chuckles sounded more like coughs, and the Doctorplaced a gentle hand over his mouth. "I can laugh enough for the both of us," he offered. "Now, where did you say you put that beaker?"

Jack's eyes flitted elsewhere. "Office," he whispered, wincing as if the pain and nausea were rising up again, getting to be too much. "Top left drawer. At the very back."

The Doctor nodded. "It'll all be over soon," he promised, and jumped to his feet. "Can one of you direct me to Jack's office?"

Ianto was the one to point him towards a small room only a few feet away.

"Oh," the Doctor said. "Thank you." He stepped inside and glanced around. Panes of glass stretching from floor to ceiling put the whole Hub on display. A massive safe took up a portion of the back wall; beside it was a row of television screens, all silently displaying static. Near a small, circular opening in the floor—a quick glance downwards revealed a narrow bed and an antique-looking oil lamp on the table beside it—was Jack's desk, littered with papers and a large piece of coral. The Doctor's eyes narrowed. He would have to ask Jack about that later.

For now, he just turned and smiled at Ianto, who, after following him, had stopped just inside the door. No response was given, so the Doctor turned away and sat himself down in Jack's chair. Ianto didn't leave, choosing to watch as the Doctor wrenched open the top left drawer and stuck his hand inside, groping blindly around for—

There it was. His hand closed around the beaker, cool and coated in a thin layer of dust: untouched. He pulled it out with a triumphant _ah-ha!_ and waved it at Ianto with a grin. "Found it," he said.

Owen appeared in the doorway, eyebrows arched high. "It was here?" he asked, disbelieving. "It was _here_ all this time?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Not exactly." There would be time to explain later; right now, getting Jack better was his top priority. He waggled the vial again, this time at Owen, and stood. A tiny smile twisted his lips. "Get me a syringe."

Surprisingly, Owen turned and did this without a single complaint. When they met in the middle of the Hub and he silently held out an empty syringe, the Doctor thought that Owen must have been anxious to see Jack well again. Knowing that voicing this would only serve to tick Owen off, he kept quiet about it and settled on a simple thank you as he took the needle and crouched by Jack.

He was suffering. His eyes were rolling in his head, and his cheeks were flushed with heat. When he grabbed the Doctor's hand, his touch was clammy. The Doctor tried to soothe him with a gentle hand on his forehead, brushing his hair away, but Jack moaned and shook his head until the Doctor pulled back. "I'm sorry, Jack," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. It'll all be over soon, I promise." He held up the syringe and smiled. "Here, look, it's the antidote! Couldn't have found it if it wasn't for you."

Jack's lips curled into the tiniest of smiles. "Yeah, well. You can thank me properly later."

The Doctor rolled his eyes, mock-exasperated, and rolled up Jack's sleeve. "This'll put you to sleep," he said softly, rubbing Jack's arm. "When you wake up, it'll all be over."

The needle was in. Jack struggled to open his eyes. "Will you be gone?" he asked, voice barely audible.

The Doctor hesitated. "No," he said at length, suddenly sure. "I'll be right here, Jack. I promise," he pulled the syringe free as gently as he could, "my face will be the first thing you see when you wake up."

Jack smiled. "It's a nice thought," he said faintly, and went silent.

For a long moment, the Doctor just stared at him. Then he reached forwards and cradled Jack's face in his hands, thumbs stroking along too-warm cheeks. With a sigh, he leaned in until they were forehead-to-forehead, and just stayed like that, eyes closed, saying nothing. He listened to Jack's even breathing, to the single beat of his heart. Even now, he felt Jack's constant presence stirring the Universe and Time alike. That wrongness had once so disturbed him; in their time apart, it had come to feel like a light, drawing him in.

That light had never been brighter.

The Doctor smiled. His fingers brushed Jack's mouth.

Someone cleared their throat.

Startled, the Doctor pulled away and looked around him, blinking. He'd forgotten there was anyone else in the room. The air was thick with tension, and he stood, sticking his hands in his pockets as he did so. Each one of Jack's team was staring at him; Owen looked triumphant, whilst Toshiko looked like she'd just lost a bet. Gwen appeared mystified and Ianto's emotionless mask had begun to crack.

"Well," the Doctor said, uncomfortable. "Is there anywhere more comfortable to put him? Don't tell me he sleeps here."

"He does," Ianto confirmed quietly. There was an edge to his voice, like he expected—or wanted—the Doctor to challenge his knowledge.

The Doctor didn't bite. "Ah, Jack," he sighed, glancing over his shoulder. He paused. "Well, I was going to say he needs to learn how to get away, but I'm sure he has no trouble doing that. Anyway!" He clapped his hands. "Nowhere to put him, then? I suppose I could drop him down his hidey-hole and onto the bed. Seems kind of precarious, though." Frowning, he thought about how that might go awry.

"All right," he decided, after a moment. "We'll leave him on the couch. Get him a blanket, proper pillow, that sort of thing. The worst is over! Jack's going to wake up tomorrow, and it'll be as if this never happened. For the most part, anyway. Isn't that good news?" Without waiting for a response, he checked the clock on Toshiko's nearby desk and jabbed a finger towards the door. "And it's midnight. You should be heading home. Jack will expect you bright and early in the morning, I'm sure."

Toshiko and Gwen looked pleased at the prospect of going home. Owen showed his appreciation by grabbing his bag, slinging it across one shoulder, and making for the door—all before the Doctor had even finished his sentence. On the threshold, Owen paused, perhaps feeling the heat of Ianto's glare. "See you," he said, a little awkwardly, and with one last glance over his shoulder at the sleeping Jack, he vanished out the door.

As Gwen pulled out her mobile, Toshiko began to pick up her things. Her coat was draped over the back of the couch where Jack lay; as she reached for it, she gazed down at him for a moment, fondly, before turning to the Doctor. "Thank you," she said. A moment of hesitation, and then: "Will you still be here tomorrow?"

The Doctor stuck his hands in his pockets. "I promised," he answered.

Toshiko smiled—polite and closed-mouthed, but still distinctly relieved—and followed Owen out. Gwen left a few moments later, after stuffing her phone away in her pocket, giving the Doctor a quick little thank you hug, and patting Ianto in a sufficiently awkward manner on the shoulder. He did little more than smile at her, but she took that as permission to leave. She told the Doctor where the blankets were kept and hurried out.

Ianto wore the same expression he had since the Doctor had suggested they go home. He was stony-faced, but he couldn't hide the mix of hurt and relief in his eyes. It only intensified when he went to stand by Jack. One hand reached down smooth a rumpled sleeve.

The Doctor stood behind him, at a little bit of a loss for what to say or do. "Aren't you tired, Ianto?" he tried. "It might be best to get some sleep."

Ianto straightened. For a long moment, he did nothing but stare down at Jack quietly, almost contemplative. Then Ianto turned his head, giving the Doctor a shadowy view of the sad half-smile on his face. "Once," Ianto said softly, "Jack told me that he wouldn't change having left his own time for the world, because here he'd found and loved people he never would've even met. When he said that, I made myself believe he was talking about me. But," Ianto hesitated, then turned around fully, meeting the Doctor's steady gaze, "I think he was talking about you."

Before anything more could be said, Ianto picked up his things and disappeared through the door.

The Doctor just stared after him, his mouth hanging open. He closed it with a click once he heard a faraway door clanging shut, and turned back to Jack. Then, very quietly, he went and fetched a blanket and a pillow. After shoving the latter under Jack's heavy head, he sat down on the edge of the couch and fidgeted for a moment.

Jack snuffled quietly in his sleep, and rolled over.

The Doctor grinned toothily, a knee-jerk reaction to the childish sound, then shook out the blanket and curled up beside Jack. It wasn't a large couch, so he ended up on the very edge with his knees hugged to his chest, pressed close against Jack's side, just taking in his warmth.

For a long time, the Doctor just watched Jack's sleeping face, only millimetres from his own. Then his eyelids began to droop, and he let the sounds of the Hub—the clanking of old, rusty pipes somewhere far below, and the hum of machinery, not dissimilar to the sounds the TARDIS made—lull him into much-needed sleep.

-

"Doctor? Doctor!"

The Doctor made a very undignified noise and forced his eyes open. As his vision cleared, Jack came into focus—awake, smiling, with colour in his cheeks: so very alive. The Doctor pushed himself up onto one elbow so fast that he lost his balance and would've fallen from the couch if it hadn't been for Jack's arms twining around his waist and pulling him to safety.

"Whoa! Easy there," Jack teased, and let go. His hands lingered on the Doctor's back, and for once, the Doctor felt no need to push them away.

Instead, he just smiled and reached up to wrap his own arms around Jack's neck, pulling him down for a brief hug. "Good morning," he said, craning his neck to look at the clock on Toshiko's desk. It was earlier than he'd expected; before, even, the Torchwood team was due to arrive. "How are you feeling?"

Jack pulled away and sat up, taking the blanket with him. The Doctor barely suppressed a shiver at the sudden lack of warmth, both from the coverlet and Jack's embrace.

"Good," Jack said, stretching. "Great, actually. Last night's kind of one big blur. How long was I out for?"

The Doctor shrugged and rose as well, flapping a hand over his mouth to mask a yawn. "Oh," he said, "only a few hours. I expected the process to take much longer. I must've gotten the information on the vaccine a bit wrong. Or maybe I heard about it at an earlier point—anyway. You look good."

Jack smirked at him. "Always do," he said, and eyed the Doctor up and down. "You, on the other hand, look like shit."

The Doctor frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "I thought that saving you was more important than stopping for a bath," he said. "Maybe I got it wrong. There's always next time."

Jack laughed and stood. "Where's my team?" he said.

"I sent them home last night," the Doctor explained. "Figured they might need a bit of a rest." He sighed and got to his feet, absently smoothing the front of his wrinkled suit as he did so. "I should go," he said, feeling more than a little awkward.

Jack whirled back around, dismayed. "Don't."

The Doctor shook his head. "I have to." He smiled, sadly. "Your friends will be here soon, and then it will be just another day at Torchwood. You know I can't argue with saving the Earth."

"Oh, Doctor." Jack stepped up to him, into his space, and cupped his cheek. The Doctor felt the sudden urge to run away, but quelled it as Jack slid the hand on his face to the back of his neck and leaned closer still, pressing their foreheads together, unconsciously echoing the Doctor's earlier actions. "When will I ever learn?" he breathed into the shared space between their lips. "You show up one day out of the blue and make all these ridiculous offers, and what can I do but go with you? Of course, I end up half-dead. And then you play the hero and patch me up again, only to swan off as soon as your job's done." He sighed. "One day, Doc, I'll know better."

The Doctor's lips twitched. "I hope not," he said, with a lightness that came off slightly strained. He pushed against Jack's chest and backed away. "Got to go. The TARDIS is waiting. Planets to see, people to help." He paused, smiling. "A whole lot of running to do. The usual."

Jack set his mouth in a grim smile. "I'll be here."

The Doctor glanced down at his hands. He fidgeted and looked up again, opening his mouth to speak. What he'd been planning to say died in his throat as he thought of what he'd told Toshiko the previous evening.

_Will you still be here tomorrow?_

_I promised._

Well, he'd kept his promise, hadn't he? His face had been the first thing Jack had seen when he'd woken up.

The Doctor swallowed the wave of guilt and turned to the door, his expression turning regretful. "Say sorry to Toshiko for me," he said, quietly. Jack watched him, silent, and the Doctor added, "Tell Ianto—tell him that I don't deserve it. And…" He hesitated, then steeled himself and turned back around. "And that I'm sorry."

Before Jack could ask why, the Doctor had closed the gap between them and taken Jack's face in his hands. For a moment, he just studied Jack's face, a thumb brushing across his cheekbones. Then the Doctor leaned in and brushed a feather-light kiss across Jack's lips. Jack made a noise against his mouth, something between a groan and a plea, and the Doctor's fingers clasped in Jack's hair, and they kissed deeply.

All too soon, the Doctor pulled away. His fingers brushed Jack's lips one final time before he turned away.

On the way out, while paused halfway into the TARDIS, he saw Ianto crossing the Plas, a paper bag clutched in one fist. Before he could be spotted, the Doctor ducked inside his ship; once the door was closed, he fell back against it and his eyes slipped shut. For one long moment, he just thought about Jack—hidden away in his Hub far below, preparing for the day's work, and how he'd smile when he looked up to see Ianto coming in.

The Doctor's eyes opened. With a slow, nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he strode up to the console. A few pulls of a lever later, the TARDIS took off through the Vortex, whirling and spinning and sending the Doctor crashing to the floor with a peal of surprised laughter.

_Wouldn't change this for the world._


End file.
